


give to dust

by nastydivine (glorydivine)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Other, Smut, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorydivine/pseuds/nastydivine
Summary: “How much for a room?” The stranger says, and Geralt sucks in a breath.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Undisclosed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 98
Collections: Explicit Stories





	give to dust

**Author's Note:**

> this ones for the homies.
> 
> enjoy~

Geralt is halfway through his current pint when a serving girl sets another drink in front of him. Geralt is immediately suspicious since she’s been less than hospitable the entire night. He makes a show of leaning over the thing. It’s a short, wide glass only about a finger full. The liquid is saturated enough to make Geralt squint as he peers at it. The smell is strong beyond belief as it fizzes through his sinuses like too much cracked pepper. His eyes begin stinging with tears, and Geralt has to suppress a cough as he sways back. Geralt doesn’t recognize the smell or look from anything behind the bartender. The woman has gone to mopping up the table next to him, and pretending Geralt isn’t there. Geralt sighs.

“This for me?”

“Why else would I put it there?” She says, insolence puffing out her chest as her hand comes to her hip. Geralt stares at her as if to imply that rolling his eyes would be too good for her.

“I don’t have the coin to pay for it.”

“Good thing someone already did, ain’t it?” She sneers, and points down the bar to the lone figure at the end.

Geralt’s brow furrows, but before he can ask she turns on her heel, ending the conversation. Geralt watches her saunter into the back of the tavern, a scowl on his face, before looking over his benefactor. He finds a broad shouldered figure in an indulgent hood, black velvet with shiny Arachnophore silk weaved in. Their pants and boots are made of equally expensive looking leather, supple and well maintained, though lacking in wear.

One hand slips out of the cloak to grip their tankard, and Geralt can see the shine of rings on rings with gaudy, fat gems and smooth metal. He can’t make out their face from this angle, but their posture is impeccable, commanding the room despite the concealing of their identity. Nearly everyone in the room is shooting distinct glances towards the stranger. More than they are Geralt himself. The women titter and giggle, while the men try and posture themselves in kind. Geralt tries to scent anything specific and dangerous, like the numb of sword oil or the voltaic charge of enchanted weaponry or an overly perfumed attempt to hide their natural smell. Though he doesn’t scent anything, and his Medallion stays still on his chest Geralt readies himself for a fight. Just in case, he tells himself as his hand finds his swords where they’re resting against the bench next to him.

Almost on cue with the click of his gauntlet against the hilt of his steel, the hood falls back. Plush lips, sharp features, and stunning dark eyes. Geralt is rapt as they hail the bartender. They exchange a few words, and Geralt is just in range to parse it out over the din of the tavern.

“How much for a room?” The stranger says, and Geralt sucks in a breath. Their voice sounds like water crashing over a fall and tumbling through the rocks below. It’s low, yet forceful. They sound certain that they will get what they want. 

“Who says we got rooms?”

“I do.”

“Hm, how long?”

“Just a night. I’ll be gone by morning.”

The bartender looks like he’ll say no, but with a flick of the stranger’s wrist and the barest shudder of Geralt’s medallion, he nods, “30 coin.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” They say, handing across the coin for their room and their drink before standing.

They glance over their shoulder, and Geralt swallows as their eyes meet. Dark eyes are molten lust with the torchlight playing over them. Geralt burns with the way their eyes flick over his form. He has to force himself not to rise when they nod their head to the stairs. Their lips curl in an utterly kissable smirk as they turn away. Their cloak swirls around them, catching the play of light to look like the silvered surface of a rippling lake as they leave. It makes Geralt think of spirits, sprites, and mischievous fae, all the things in the world that he would’ve been better off ignoring but didn’t. He wonders if he’s developing an uncomfortable penchant for falling into sugar coated traps. Especially when those traps include something as decadent as the promise of a good fuck,

Geralt’s gaze finds the drink in front of him. The color hasn’t dulled, but the smell has had time to air out a bit. Geralt leans in again, sniffing purposefully and trying his hardest to pick out anything dangerous. As far as he can tell there isn’t anything unidentifiable under the sickening scent. It’s a fancy alcohol.

Against better judgement, Geralt downs the drink in one go. It’s icy-hot as it flows down his throat to settle in his stomach. The glass clinks back on to the rotting wood of the table, and Geralt can feel a sweat break out across his brow. His armour feels too hot as something warms him in a wave from his gut. Geralt relaxes with it, near shuddering in his seat. It takes him too long to stand afterwards.

With a handful of crowns left on the table, Geralt follows the edge of that cloak as it disappears up the stairwell in the far back of the tavern. He slows his footsteps, fighting against his urge to rush, to hurry. He ‘s been in this town long enough that the initial unease and distrust at cohabitating with a witcher has faded, but he should still exercise some caution. It’s easy to sneak after the stranger, each stair holding a creak as he ascends.

Geralt keeps a hand playing along the hilt of his swords, ready despite the way his cock is hardening in his leathers. The heavy musk of arousal and the lighter play of something floral waft to meet him. There’s a flurry of glittering fabric into the only open door along the hallway when he reaches the top of the stairs. Following leads him into a modest room with a bed, a side table, and nothing more. Geralt can scent the electric tingle of magic on the air just before his Medallion reacts, and he assumes it’s for the mage lights dancing around the room. The stranger isn’t immediately visible from the doorway, and Geralt wonders if this is a trap after all.

Two more steps in, and the door slams shut behind him.

Geralt braces, mind racing to fight back, but as he whirls around he finds no ambush and no enemy. The stranger is leant against the door, cloak discarded over a chair at the corner. Without the smells from the bar clogging the air, Geralt is overwhelmed by the intoxicating mix of magic and arousal. They push off the door, and Geralt’s hand clenches on his swords. Their movements are slow, and they’re all sensuality as they slink into his space. One hand takes Geralt by the chin, smooth palm scraping against his stubble. Geralt can’t help the way he pants as slim fingers hook into the edge of his trousers to pull him forward.

They’re pressed close from shoulders to hips to knees, and Geralt feels himself throb with want. His head is spinning from nothing more than being held close. He tries to lean closer so their lips can meet, but the stranger pulls back. They tsk at him when he whines.

“Strip, Witcher.”

They release him all at once, and Geralt nearly falls to his knees. He drops his swords without a thought, ignoring their thud in favor of unbuckling his armor. It falls away as he goes, until Geralt is left in his tattered shirt and his undone trousers. He whips the shirt over his head, tangling his already messy hair then glances up. The stranger is without their shirt too. Their chest is hairless, and the skin looks supple. The light plays over them in soft shadows as they lay their shirt over the chair, and as they straighten Geralt is helpless to tear his gaze away. Geralt finds himself wanting to touch. His hand is caught when he reaches out, though he hadn’t even been aware of the action. They click their tongue at him again. They come forward, pressing a kiss, so chaste it barely deserves the name, to his lips. 

“What did I say?”

Geralt doesn’t have the mind to respond, “Um.”

“I said strip,” they laugh, “And yet you are still dressed.”

Geralt is surprised when strong hands push him backwards. He braces, but his back meets the not-quite-soft, not-quite-scratchy sheets of the tavern bed. Geralt shifts up onto his elbows, gazing down his body. The stranger is not looming as he expects, they are still distanced from the bed. With quick fingers they undo their belt and fly to let their trousers fall to the floor. Geralt chokes on his next breath. They are beautiful. Where Geralt is all bulky muscle and bumpy scarring, they are sleek. There is enough weight on them that they don’t look unhealthily thin, yet Geralt imagines his fingers touching if he wrapped his hands at the dip of their waist.

Once they’ve kicked their boots off they drop to their knees next to where Geralt’s feet dangle off the bed. Deft fingers make quick work of the lacing on Geralt’s boots. His pants follow with a strong tug as Geralt lifts his hips at their behest. Their hands are near big enough, fingers long enough to wrap around the meat of Geralt’s thighs. They squeeze, nails digging in, and Geralt’s lashes flutter.

The stranger crawls onto the bed then, hands running up Geralt legs. They lay themself out on their belly between his legs. Geralt bites into his lip as his aching cock brushes the jut of their cheekbone. They turn their head, laying a sucking kiss under the head of his cock, and Geralt melts. His breathing hitches, his hands clenching in the sheets. They lower their head, tonguing along the underside of his cock as they go. Geralt’s legs tense around them, feet sliding along the sheets. One hand finds Geralt’s thigh lifting it up onto their shoulder. Geralt lets it happen, becoming pliant under their lips, teeth, and tongue.

There is a fire lit in Geralt’s gut, burning him from the inside out, and the mouth sliding down to close around one of his balls isn’t helping. Geralt needs to take the edge off because at the moment the blade is pressed to his throat, sharp as ever against delicate skin. He’s so desperate for any touch, any pleasure they are willing to bestow.

As if reading his mind the stranger brings a hand up to wrap around Geralt’s cock. Their hand is slick with some sort of salve. It turns to oil against the heat of Geralt’s skin, and drips everywhere as they stroke him. They keep laving their tongue over his balls, heedless of the sloppy mess they’re making. Geralt curses, head falling back. There’s a hand cradling the back of one knee in a way that makes him feel taken care of, and the knot of arousal curls tighter in his gut as the hand pushes his leg further up. He calls into the air when lips trail petal-soft along his thigh, followed closely by teeth digging in. The pain makes him spill as his hips jump.

“Fuck…” Geralt says as his legs are laid on the sheets. The stranger straightens, broad shoulders burgeoning a place for them between Geralt’s spread thighs. Geralt looks down at his still hard cock, flushed bright against the dark skin of their hand, then up at the stranger. He moans when their hand squeezes him. “What’s— what’s your name?”

“You may call me whatever you like.” they say with a sly smile, and Geralt feels it slip down his spine. Their voice is so deep. He wants to hear more of it, and he wants to obey.. 

Geralt finds himself embarrassingly, dizzyingly aroused as the stranger’s hand sneaks up his abdomen. It pushes Geralt flat to the bed by his sternum, and Geralt can’t complain as the stranger’s other hand starts stroking his cock again. Geralt lifts a hand, wrapping his fingers in the stranger’s thick hair to pull them down. They meet him for a kiss. It’s sloppy until they take control, sucking on Geralt’s tongue to make him groan for them. Geralt gasps as the stranger’s fingers tease the head of his cock. They pinch the tip, and he shudders.

“Please...”

“What do you want, witcher?”

“More. I want—” Geralt cuts himself off as the grip around him tightens, hand moving faster. It’s almost excruciating with how sensitized Geralt feels. Geralt focuses on the stranger’s thumb sliding along the sweat-slickened skin of his chest as it passes next to his nipple, and he clenches his teeth against a sound much too loud for his roughed vocal cords. The stranger brings him off again, holding him down with a grunt as Geralt tries to arch off the bed. Geralt’s hand wraps around the stranger’s wrist, short nails scratching ash trails along their skin while he writhes.

“Tell me, Geralt.”

It takes a moment for Geralt to come down this time. He’s trembling. His skin is crawling, and Geralt wishes there were enough hands to touch him everywhere at once. He lifts the hand on his chest in both of his, and brings it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the thick black steel ring on their thumb then the silver on their middle finger, and the cobalt on their ring. Geralt’s tongue peeks out, pink as wild carnations as he licks up their palm. He traces wrinkles and the thin skin between fingers until he can wrap his lips around two of them. He presses the pads of the stranger’s fingers to his tongue. They’re soft, and the stranger tastes like salt and lightning, musk and metal. Lavender is buried, somewhere underneath it all. Geralt moans around them as he pulls off.

“I want to please you.” They raise an eyebrow, but the lust in their eyes doesn’t falter.

“How?”

Geralt squeezes the stranger between his knees, and throws his arms about their waist. With a pull and a push Geralt flips them to lay supine underneath him. They blink up at him, but a smirk graces their lips. They watch as Geralt slides down between their legs. He ends up kneeling on hardwood, but he doesn’t care. He’s too interested in shoving his face between long, slim legs. Geralt breathes deep, nose tucked next to their balls, and is near overwhelmed by the scent of them. He moans, hands cupping the groove between their hip and thighs as he wraps his lips around the head.

“Eager, eager,” they murmur, nostrils flaring as they thread a hand into Geralt’s tangled hair. They don’t press or pull, only cradle Geralt’s head as if he’s made of expensive, beautiful stained glass. Geralt shifts into the petting, encouraging it as he sinks further down the stranger’s cock. They are thick enough to be uncomfortable in the way they stretch his jaw, but the taste is needed to sate the lust boiling his blood and pushing his senses to unbearable strength. It soothes Geralt, granting him a clearer mind to focus on his partner’s pleasure.

The stranger pushes into Geralt’s mouth, abdomen flexing with the motion. It’s a shallow thrust, and Geralt doesn’t mind. He likes the way their hands adjust to grab his skull, lacing around the back as if they’ll pull him down and hold him there. Geralt lets one of his hands fall to cup himself as he relaxes into the hold. His knees splay further apart, and Geralt angles his hips down into the questing touch of his own hand. He’s still hard and dripping, and it’s too much, but he doesn’t want the pleasure to stop. He moans around the weight in his mouth, and gets an answering grunt from above.

If he weren’t a witcher then he wouldn’t have heard it. Geralt doubles his efforts, seeking out more sounds like that if only for the way it sends a bolt of satisfaction through his core.

His cock jumps against his hand when they moan a little louder. The oversensitivity breaks into something more tolerable, and Geralt wraps his hand fully around himself. Geralt seals his lips tighter and flattens his tongue as his attention strays to match the bobs of his head and the pace of his hand. His hips grind into the steady strokes he’s keeping even as the stranger becomes careless. Thick, salty precum coats the back of his tongue, and Geralt throbs. He wishes the stranger would come already. They slow to a snail’s pace, and with their next thrust far push enough that Geralt gags. His chest heaves, and Geralt has to suppress the urge to cough when the stranger keeps him there. His nose is close, but not touching the dark bush at the base of their shaft. Geralt swallows around them, and would smile if he could.

Geralt pulls off to taste the precum building in the slit, before sinking down again for the way the weight presses against his tongue. It’s heady, making him feel giddy and heavy with the lack of air and the syrupy after effects of his previous orgasms running in his limbs. He gasps when the stranger suddenly pulls entirely free. Geralt can’t stop himself from coming again as air rushes into his starved lungs. His seed dribbles down the end of the bed covers, and Geralt’s head falls to the stranger’s thigh. Their fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, tipping his head back so he’ll look up. He has to blink, once and twice, before the stranger’s gorgeous face swims into focus.

“Geralt?”

Geralt hums some version of a response, and stands at their insistent tug. His legs are wobbly, but the bed is right there. Geralt lets himself fall onto his stomach. They lift his hips for him until Geralt can get his knees under him. His ass is in the air, and he can feel the stranger’s presence behind him.

Geralt near yelps when something licks over him from the seam of his sack to his asshole. A soft breathy moan leaves from high in his throat as it happens again, yet slower this time. The stranger’s long, talented fingers return to wrap around the base of his cock, and Geralt jerks. It’s too much, too soon, too much, but Geralt doesn’t do much more than collapse into the mattress’s gentle hold. Their freehand wraps under Geralt’s hips to hold him up as the stranger shoves their tongue into Geralt. Geralt can’t hold still as the stranger licks in and out of him, his nerves are frayed at the ends with the stimulation coming from every little thing. The sheets are cool under him, and the stranger’s hands smoulder against his skin like coals. Geralt is sure there will be bruises drawn across his hips like smudges of ash in at least an hour’s time.

“Oh, fuck me. Fuck me, please,” Geralt starts babbling as he gets close again. The stranger smiles into the skin of his ass, and replaces their tongue with one, then two, then three long fingers. They crook to rub over Geralt’s prostate, and Geralt tears up as he jerks and climaxes again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Geralt is left blinking and gasping, bare as they pull back from him, though he doesn’t have time to do more than whine into the mattress as he’s flipped onto his back. His head spins at the speed with which he’s thrown. He bounces once before he settles. The stranger takes a moment to reach over Geralt. They slip a pillow under his head and another under his hips. Geralt melts with the flutter behind his ribs as he relaxes into it. He ropes some of their hair between his fingers, using it to pull them down into a sweet kiss that speaks his thanks.

Their hands find Geralt’s thick thighs, spreading him wide. They slot themselves in between them, and Geralt bites their lip. He tugs the skin between his teeth, sharp but not unkind as they take their cock in hand to line up with his hole. The first push has Geralt’s mouth falling open on a sound caught high in his throat. It doesn’t hurt as he stretches around them, and Geralt quickly finds himself wanting more, wanting to be filled to the brim. He wants to be bursting at the seams, he’s so full. They sink to the hilt with little aching rolls of their hips, deep and sweet, and Geralt lock his legs around their waist to keep them there. He could get off on the full feeling and the steady press of their cock into his prostate if he really tried. As is, one big hand cups the curve of his waist, and the other wraps around his cock. They rock into him, and Geralt shudders. The gentle push sends his cock scraping across their palm, causing pleasure to skitter along Geralt’s taxed nerves.

Geralt lifts a hand to push them back, gasping in breaths as they release his lips. His hand slides along their neck to their shoulder, and digs in to the slight flesh there. It’s not much, but it is enough to grip as they fuck into him faster. Geralt’s other hand finds the bed sheets above him, twisting in a white-knuckled grip to give himself the illusion of leverage. He squirms in an attempt to meet them thrust for thrust. It barely works, driving them deeper into him, though it makes a world of difference. Geralt chokes, turning his head into his arm. His breath is harsh and loud, and it drowns out their words as the stranger leans over to murmur into his neck. 

They sit up a little higher on their knees, and hike Geralt up with them. The new grip lifts his back from the bedding. The angle is uncomfortable on his shoulders, but Geralt has been through much worse with less pleasure to offset it. 

“Please,” he gasps, but they beat him to it. Their hand wraps around his cock, stroking counterpoint to their thrusts. Geralt yells, noise spilling out unbidden as his body sags into where they hold him up. His anticipation builds with his climax as their thrusts turn reckless against him, heedless of harm that may befall him. Geralt likes the rough edge of it, especially as their thumb plays along the head of his cock. It presses into the ridge under the head, brushing up through the slick bubbling on to his abdomen. It’s easy for Geralt to orgasm again. His body shivering as they continue nailing him into the mattress.

The climax throbbing through him grows more intense as he’s fucked through it. They don’t slow down or stop, and Geralt doesn’t want to ask them to. He presses into their thrusts as much as he can with his body lifted as it is. They don’t start to slow until their cock pulses inside him, filling him as they lean into him. Their weight presses Geralt back to the bed, and his hips slide out of their lap. Geralt shudders hard as they slide their cock out of him, cum dribbling out with the motion. The aftershocks of pleasure thrum more powerfully than he expected, and Geralt wants to come again, though he isn’t sure he can.

The stranger rolls him onto his side, and Geralt sighs out as a hand rubs down his side. They squeeze his hip, and Geralt turns onto his front. He’s mindful of his still hard cock between his thighs, but he passes out as soon as he relaxes into the mattress.

The morning brings a clear head, a bittersweet ache in his lower back, an odd lack of his ever present bone-deep tension, and a pulse of arousal as his whole body tingles with the aftermath of the previous night.

Geralt rolls over. He props himself up as best he can to gaze around the room. He’s thankful to notice a wooden tub in the corner, brimming with steaming water. He takes his time heaving himself up from the lavish mattress, and stumbling across the room. As he drops into the water it splashes over the edges, but Geralt cares more for the warmth encasing him. It’s a few degrees above scalding, and Geralt sighs into as he leans back against the wood. He dips one hand below the water to scrub away the evidence of the previous night where it had dried. His wrist brushes against his lazily hardening cock as the memories of last night rush to the forefront of his mind. A satisfied tick curves his lips as he slinks deeper into the water, palming his cock.

**Author's Note:**

> it's my fic, and i said refractory periods don't exist ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
